


Strange Bedfellows

by tattletwink



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-20 21:38:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tattletwink/pseuds/tattletwink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s about balance. Their truth outnumbers her truth and Freddie won’t rest until she see’s a fair share of her stories in the world (and her share of money in the bank, she is a businesswoman after all). </p>
<p>So when Freddie cashes in more than a few favors to arrange a private meeting with the incarcerated Will Graham she hopes that all of her spending will yield in something equally profitable, that she might emerge with the story she has yet to begin writing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strange Bedfellows

Freddie Lounds has connections.

 

She doesn’t have season tickets to the opera, my parents singlehandedly fund the athletics department, “Right this way, Miss Lounds, your table is waiting”, old money and older surnames, twelve hundred dollar cocktail dress by Alexander Wang for the latest charity gala connections. 

 

She has the pick your poison, drugs within the hour, blurry pictures outside the motel room, Sunday breakfast with the club girls, 2am rendezvous at the 24 hour diners with shit coffee, “Consider it taken care of, sweetheart”, baseball bat and a crowbar connections.

 

As a woman in her line of business, it means very little to say she could ruin someone’s reputation with a single text (though she could).

 

It means even less to say that she balances several stories in her head at one time, trying to finesse the direction of Tattlecrime with every article she writes (though she does).

 

She understands more than most, the importance of balance, of equilibrium. 

 

Frequent critics of Tattlecrime point to the sensationalist titles, the hyperbolic language, the lurid details as evidence of her journalistic debauchery. “Freddie Lounds’ is the worst kind of journalist” “Reads likes its been ripped out of a gothic pulp novella” “It (Tattlecrime) has no place amongst today’s trusted media outlets”

 

It’s nothing she hasn’t heard. Sipping tepid coffee, Freddie’s read it all.

 

In the morning she reads the critics because it’s when she’s most awake and at night she reads the latest psychology journals because it gives her ideas to ponder before she goes to sleep.

 

Love it or hate it, Tattlecrime is a media juggernaut.  It’s hits surpass the sales of the most popular newspaper in Baltimore tenfold daily and it ranks third among the most read news websites in the state.  Unlike it’s competitors, Tattlecrime has been growing in readership, extending to neighboring territories.

 

Is the writing florid? Of course. The details gruesome? Almost always.

 

It’s the truth and the truth is murder is a goddamn mess.

 

The news sites that report sanitized stories of violence and murder outnumber her outlet one hundred to one. “Tortured”, “stabbed”, and a personal favorite “the victim” are the bland offerings of choice. Words so broad that they convey the unspeakable with utter monotony, further desensitizing an apathetic public to the horrors before them.

 

Like a sorority sister to a young pledge, Freddie brushes the hair from her reader’s ear and whispers truth as far as she can see it with all the gory details.

 

That when they say “tortured” they mean screws and nails. When they say “stabbed” they mean deep as your pinky finger from belly to breast. And that the “victim” was a young woman named Chelsea who had chipped blue nail polish on her toes and had a dog named Lucky.

 

It’s about balance. Their truth outnumbers her truth and Freddie won’t rest until she see’s a fair share of her stories in the world (and her share of money in the bank, she is a businesswoman after all).

 

So when Freddie cashes in more than a few favors to arrange a private meeting with the incarcerated Will Graham she hopes that all of her spending will yield in something equally profitable, that she might emerge with the story she has yet to begin writing.

 

Under normal circumstances, the article have been posted within 36 hours of his arrest. Freddie is diligent in maintaining notes for future stories. However after penning an outline Freddie discovers she can’t trust her own words. Things aren’t gelling in her mind and her gut is telling her something the facts aren’t. Brandishing her phone, she decides to get the truth from the source herself.

 

Freddie doesn’t have the warden in her pocket, some people can’t be bribed, but she has sufficient connections in the prison system to organize a low level mix up. Adultery, alcoholism, and general misconduct are enough to persuade a few correctional officers to facilitate a private interview with the subject in question.

 

‘Private interview’. Freddie has to laugh. The best she can get with strings she’s pulling is a conjugal visit in the old trailer out behind the prison.

 

She doubts Will will see the humor in it.

 

 

On the day of the planned chaos, Will Graham is escorted by two correctional officers, Joseph Walker and Rick Livingston, passed the doors of the gymnasium for his scheduled yard time to the dull steel doors leading to the back of the building.

 

Will, noting the deviation in routine, says nothing, watching both of the guards with the underlying tension of an animal in transit.

 

The doors burst open and the sun is bright in his eyes and he can see the conjugal trailers, three lining the chain-ink fence topped with thick corded barbwire. Will squints, his eyes adjusted to the higher levels of light, and Rick grabs him by the forearm with too much pressure, twisting Will closer to him. Joseph advances to open the door, disregarding his partner’s movements.

 

“You say anything about this… I can make life real hard for you here.” Rick is under no illusions as to who he is threatening, the Minnesota Shrike, though cold and silent since capture, has a legacy that long precedes him. Trite and enfeebled, his words are a product of a life of half-truths from working both sides of the prison system, rather than a tangible threat.

 

Will wishes he would remove his hand, and almost the second after the thought occurs to him, Rick’s grip slackens. He nods, jaw tight with irritation. Rick leads him forward towards Joseph, who is wielding keys. Will’s gaze flutters up to him in momentary disbelief, then concern.  Joseph removes his handcuffs and shoves him into the stuffy trailer, locking the door behind him.

 

Will swallows hard, taking in his surroundings. Rubbing a calloused thumb along the inflamed flesh of his wrist (the guards cuff him extra tightly these days), he realizes that this is the first time, since transit, he’s had another opportunity to escape. Although his dismisses the idea after a moment, the soft twinge of the idea inflames his assessment.

 

There is small mattress in the corner, probably foam from Will’s estimation, neatly made with a striped yellow tiled bed spread. Aside from that, the room is barren. Deconstructed from it’s prior utility, the trailer serves only one purpose now and he can’t help but regard the bed with mild revulsion. He’s stayed in his fair share of motel rooms, but sitting in a conjugal trailer he’s afforded no illusions as to its cleanliness.

 

Will glances at torn patches of the tacky wallpaper, observing two separate windows in the cab. Locked, but of fragile construction, it’s difficult not to contemplate kicking one out.  He wouldn’t make it further than ten feet before one of the guards put a boot to his neck. The thought of running, though frivolous, draws a wry smile.

 

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Will balances his elbows on his knees and lowers his face into his hands. Weeks of prison life have strained his empathy irrevocably, the constant presence of guards like sunspots in his eyes.

 

Despite his confusion as to why he’s been taken the trailer, Will forces it to bleed out of him like so much sweat so he can savor the momentary solitude as much as possible.

 

Will is seldom alone in either mental or a physical capacity. His gratitude outweighs concern. It makes him pliable to his future visitor awaits him, despite previous trepidations. He doesn’t have to wait long.

 

 

Freddie signs the visitor book with a delicate hand, “Cynthia Weston”. The blue ink swirls the ‘C’ and ‘W’ into exaggerated swoops, and she is momentarily proud of her penmanship. Cynthia Weston, former business executive for the Elton Financial Development Firm, is a woman of many appetites, including men of the decidedly more nefarious origins.

 

Regarded with the cautious admiration of a prison girlfriend, Freddie as Cynthia is greeted by a Carla Daniels, a corrections officer, who offers to escort her to the trailer. She outlines the procedure for conjugal visits along with rules and regulations and Freddie, playing to type, ignores most of it, favoring careful surveillance of the scenery around her.

 

According to the visitor book, she’s Cynthia Weston visiting David Barlo for a 2pm conjugal visit.

 

Wolf whistles and cat calls echo around her as they pass minimum security holding cells.  She keeps her stare level and her poise calm as she walks past, heels clicking on the smooth linoleum floor. Her favors buy her textual immunity from the warden, but now that’s she’s at the prison maintaining the ruse is entirely in her hands. Freddie speaks as little as possible, relying on her appearance to convey her authenticity.

 

Huge tortoiseshell glasses, a dark silk scarf to cover her hair, a tight black dress, and coat of fire engine lipstick and even Freddie struggled to find herself in her compact earlier that morning. She doesn’t pretend to enjoy hiding, though this case is proving to be the exception.

 

Speaking as little as possible, she finally reaches the conjugal trailer. Freddie thanks the guard “so much”, with throaty emphasis, for her accompaniment, pressing her empty handbag into the other woman’s hands with insistent gratitude. Accepting the bag awkwardly, she mumbles something about it being her job. Her flush doesn’t escape Freddie’s gaze.

 

Rick, who remains at the door of the trailer, unlocks it and Freddie enters, smiling tightly. He looks down in deference and the door is shut behind her. She casts the sunglasses off as soon as she hears the lock click behind her and casts Will an appraising glance.

 

“Oh thank god. For a second, I thought I actually was going to fuck David Barlo. ” Freddie jokes wryly, her witticism falling on an uncomprehending audience. She takes a moment to be privately pleased with the plan’s execution, untying her scarf, allowing her copper curls to bounce free along her shoulders.

 

“What are you doing here?” Will growls, rising to stand before her. There is tension in the line of his body, muscles ready for action. She disregards it, carefully pinching the soft leather glove off of a manicured hand.

 

“I’m here to talk. In private, obviously.”

 

“What makes you think for a second that I am going to talk to you?” Will steps closer. The movement is meant to intimidate, but she can’t help but smile at his familiar expression.  Only for her does he glower like that.

 

“Aside from the fact that I broke you out of your little holding cell at great expense to myself?” Freddie’s eyes linger on the numbers on his uniform. She wonders if Will enjoyed the brief period outside, if it gets stuffy in his cell. She focuses on the minor details, the loose stitching along his prison number, the worn fabric along the knees and elbows of his prison jumpsuit, so that her disinterest appears authentic.

 

She’s hunting for adjectives, he realizes. Taking him apart to be rearranged into shamefully trite and exploitive paragraphs. He swallows deliberately.

 

Will rescinded any positive will towards his unknown benefactor the moment he recognized her. Freddie Lounds incites her own brand of hatred and in a second Will is awash with the sensation, his pulse pounding loudly in his ears. She’s ignoring him and Will finds her cool disregard almost as inflammatory as her obsessive defamation.

 

“I’m the only person who doesn’t think you killed Abigail Hobbs.”

 

Freddie allows a moment for the statement to hang in the air and Will looks at her defiantly. She continues.

 

“You know that, of course. You must feel their fear, pity, and disgust when they sit in front of you. Jack Crawford, Dr. Bloom, you’ve shamed the BAU. You’re beyond redemption and more than that have _outlived_ your usefulness, Mr. Graham.” Freddie advances to him, forcing her eye contact, they now stand inches apart. “That is to everyone but me.”

 

“I’m useful to you now?” Will says, advancing a step. Freddie, caught of guard, staggers a step back. “You’ve dragged my name through the mud in your tawdry gossip rag for months.”

 

Another step. Her reaction is steady this time, having recovered from her surprise. They move step and step, her legs steady in her heels.

 

“You’ve made your fortune reveling in the most painful moments of family members on the worst day of their lives, turned their tragedies into garish tabloid fodder.”

 

Will steps forward to Freddie’s retreat once more and it’s like they’re dancing until Freddie’s back hits the wall and intimacy gives way to domination. Will’s bigger than Freddie and he easily brackets her under his figure.

 

“You’ve painted me as a murderer, a ticking time bomb, for page views and accolades. My life has been your livelihood for the past six months, and now I’m useful?”

 

Freddie’s fingers splay wide against the thick wallpaper. She doesn’t brook intimidation and when she appraises the situation she ignores her precarious position and leans forward, knowing full well that if Will attacked her the response time of the exterior corrections workers would be insufficient to save her.

 

“I know I make your blood run hot, Mr. Graham.” Freddie says pointedly. Her face now inches from his own, pressing for eye contact. Will pulls back slightly, surprised, and Freddie pursues his movement, eyes dragging over his features. “There is something unsettling about someone who discusses your greatest fear like they’ve lifted the passages directly from pages of your diary. Tell me you’re not dangerous, pinning me like you are this very second, that you aren’t lethal.”

 

They are close enough to kiss and if either of them turned their head it could happen by accident. Freddie’s heart beats wildly and she tries to keep her legs from wobbling beneath her. Will’s breathing is labored and it brushes softly against her cheek.

 

“You would like that, wouldn’t you? The momentary satisfaction of finally being right for once in your pathetic career, of having every sordid word you’ve ever typed finally justified.”

 

Freddie chuckles. “Justified? Well, well, Mr. Graham aren’t we vainglorious?” Her painted smile is mocking and her breath smells of peppermint. “Do you honestly think I would help you out of some moral imperative? That I have any desire for a  ‘journalistic redemption’ of any kind?”

 

Will is silent, his lips a tight line.

 

“I don’t know if you know this, Mr. Graham, but I can spend my fortune knowing the checks won’t bounce because my writing is insufficiently insensate. Morality has nothing to do with this. You need me. It’s only a matter of you realizing that I’m your only option.”

 

Will looks up from her delicate collar bone, tracing the curve of her neck. Freddie isn’t wrong. He is painfully aware of his mental seclusion, of his limited options. Desperately for an exit, he extinguishes his desires in favor of reason. He holds his tongue, waiting for Freddie to proceed.

 

“I’d say take your time, but I’ve only got you slightly less than an hour so it would be mutually beneficial if you didn’t waste our time.”

 

Will waits. There’s a glimmer of uncertainty in her eyes. She doesn’t like his hesitation and Will relishes her faltering confidence, the split in the icy veneer. He’s tempted to blow her off just to see her face fall, contort in anger, or sneer with fury. Will doesn’t know which way she’d go, but she’d make an exceptional scene about it.

 

It was one of the few constants he’d observed in his brief meetings with the woman. Freddie operated under her own control at all times, with the calculated movements of a practiced actress.

 

He can’t send her away. The knowledge is leaden on his tongue, despite his hatred for Freddie he’s in no position to bargain with her. He tries to anyways. She lets him. When she gets her way, as he noticed around Abigail, Freddie is the queen of social niceties and benevolence.

 

Standing too close in the stuffy trailer, she starts talking about book rights, trademarks, nondisclosure agreements. He swallows hard and agrees to the portions he understands and then he agrees to the portions he doesn’t.  Business is her second language and Will doesn’t care, he doesn’t have much of a life to shelter at this point. They cover everything in about twenty minutes.

 

It’s a verbal contract. It’ll have to do until Freddie can sneak into the prison and get him to sign the formal document.

 

Will looks forlorn. More upset with himself, than cognizant of the enemy in front of him.

 

“Relax,” She says roughly, “You still have your soul, I just get the story.” Assertive fingertips tilt his face towards her. Startling blue eyes hunt his, forcing the eye contact. The motion irritates, but he allows it. Empathically, Freddie’s conviction steadies Will’s unease.

 

The gesture may have been too much, but she ventured it anyways. He doesn’t recoil and it isn’t trust, but Freddie takes what she can get. She doesn’t care for tearful reunions or apologies, she doesn’t pick people up from the airport, and she doesn’t remember birthdays.  Since senior year editing the high school paper, Freddie’s mind has been with the story, and right now she doesn’t see Will Graham the inmate, but Will Graham the narrative, the savory explanation.

 

Her fingers itch to type.

 

Freddie is a fierce opponent, but a steady ally. She regards him with the same ferocity of purpose, but the flame is extinguished. Freddie has nothing from heated exchanges, so she wastes no time in indulging them. Will’s distaste doesn’t dissipate so quickly, but realizing that he has little to gain from being difficult with her, he swallows his haughty retort.

 

“Let’s start from the beginning.”

 

 

 

 


End file.
